Mrs. Baxter sighs. “Look, guys, I agree with you completely. Ms. Jones hasn’t been a problem in any way since she’s arrived, but my hands are tied. I’m doing what I’ve been told by the State. You and I both know it’s best not to make waves.”
She’s right, of course, but it sucks because it’s just another blow—another circumstance that proves we have no control over our lives. We’ve got to just deal with it until graduation, then no one can tell us what to do anymore.
“Are those our new schedules?” I ask, pointing to the papers.
“Yes.” She holds them out.
I grab the one with my name on it and the others reluctantly do the same. Causing problems at school will only make things worse.
“Thank you for cooperating,” she says as we exit the office. The first bell rang ten minutes ago. We’ll be late for class but that’s not the worst part of the day.
The worst part is going to be telling Starlee. She’s not going to take this well, and I feel for whoever sees her first.
5
Starlee
First and second period are a complete waste of time. I’m too focused on getting to Art and seeing if George made it to school. When I get to the basement room, relief floods me; there’s no mistaking his tall, lanky frame standing in front of Ms. Peterman’s desk. His portfolio leans against his legs.
As excited as I am, I’m hesitant to approach him. What if, despite what Dexter and Jake say, he’s still upset? I wait in the doorway as my classmates push past me, waiting for him to finish talking to the teacher. She points down to a form and he glances over, seeing me. His eyes flick over me but he makes no other moves, just focusing back on Ms. Peterman.
I can’t wait for him to approach me—the bell is going to ring—so I step in the room, pass by him and go to my seat. I can’t help but overhear some of their conversation.
“I made a few calls,” Ms. Peterman says, “and the admission offices are giving you until the end of the day to submit your portfolio.”
“Thank you. I thought I’d have time to do it before the deadline.” He runs his hand through his light brown hair. “Things really went sideways.”
She gives him a sympathetic smile. “It was extenuating circumstances, George. The admissions board understands and you deserve a fair shot.”
“I’ll let you know how it goes.”
He picks up his portfolio and without another look, leaves the room.
He didn’t even acknowledge me and it stings as much as a slap in the face.
I try to force myself to listen as Ms. Peterman describes our next unit, ceramics, but I feel the tidal wave of despair rolling over me. Once she’s finished and we’re ready to start working on our own, I stand on shaky feet and walk to her desk.
“Can I have a pass to the restroom?”
“Sure, Starlee, they’re hanging by the door.”
I grab the colorful pass off the hook and exit the room quickly. There’s no bathroom down on the art hall, so I take the ramp to the upper level and turn the corner. Hot tears burn at my eyes. I’d screwed this up for everyone and now the twins, at least George, can barely stand to look at me. I push through the bathroom door and head to the sink, splashing cold water on my face. In the mirror I see how much of a wreck I am. Red eyes. Splotchy face. It’s one thing to be forced away from Dex and Jake, but the twins? I ruined their lives.
The door opens behind me and I glance down, not wanting anyone to see me like this. I turn on the water again, hoping to look busy, and ignore the footsteps behind me. It’s not until I feel someone behind me that I look up and see George’s face in the mirror. His eyes are sad, ringed with dark circles, and he reaches around me to turn off the water.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” I say, as much about it being the girls' bathroom and also being near me. “We could both get in trouble.”
“I’m not sure we can get in much more trouble than we already are,” he replies gruffly. “I needed to talk to you.”
My heart ebbs with pain. I fight the urge to touch his face, soothe the dark smudges under his eyes. “Are you okay? Is Charlie? Why aren’t you in class?”
He nods. “We’re fine. Not happy, but fine.”
“I’m so sorry about this,” I say in a rush. “If I could take it back—”
“Take what back?” he frowns. “You didn’t do anything wro
ng.”